From: “michael”
To: “Ellen Yeats”
Ellen—
Sounds great, where’s the catch? Just kidding, I would love to, and since I will be in Ptown right beforehand, Wareham is super convenient for my plans (and lots closer than Logan Airport, that’s for sure). And if there is anything you need me to snag…shoes, bags, clothes, etc—and shuttle down to PB for you, let me know. I’m certainly familiar with all the joys of airline travel these days—I generally fly barefoot now;-) But at any rate, your wish is my command.
mt
From: “Ellen Yeats”
To: “Michael”
Michael—
Wonderful—consider it a done deal then! I will already be gone by the time you go to the house to pick up the car, but I will leave the keys with my assistant Charlotte. I am so pleased, Michael, this means a lot to me, and I am doubly happy if it helps you in any way. I think I have packed most of what I need for the winter, but if that changes (and knowing me, it may) I will let you know. Thanks again.
blessings,
ey
PS The directions are attached to this email, make sure you read them closely as it can be a little tricky to find the place on your first visit.
Less than a month later, I was reading those directions as closely as a freshman English major navigating Joyce’s Ulysses for the first time, with about the same amount of comprehension. I peered through the windshield of Kate’s car and tried to ignore her frequent bitching about the dirt road and the corresponding lack of pavement. And about how lost we were. And about how her hangover seemed to be worsening the longer we kept hunting for this house. I wisely said as little as possible.
“Well, the directions say it is quite a ways down this road. It has to be down here somewhere. It’s not like Ellen doesn’t want me to find it. It’s just a little tricky, I think.” I tried to sound optimistic.
“Tricky is one way of putting it. Fucking entirely without any kind of landmarks or street signs is maybe another way.” Kate’s glass was less than half-full this morning, perhaps because every time I looked at it last night, it was brimming with Mews’ margaritas. Little Miss Cranky-Cranky.
“Wait, wait, that was the house number on that mailbox I think…slow down, back up, back up.” I prayed I had seen what I thought I had. I had only glimpsed the numbers in the side-view mirror by chance. Pretty goddamn helpful to have them on that side of the mailbox, really, since it was the dead-end side. I quashed my sarcasm and crossed my fingers. Please let this nightmare be over. My unwilling driver’s dubiousness was palpable, but she sighed and put the car in reverse. Thankfully, the numbers were the same on second glance, and Kate and I were finally headed down Ellen’s driveway, our long friendship more or less intact. I reminded myself to give Kate the crumpled directions so she could burn them in effigy. (Once she found her way back out, of course. And took a much-needed nap.)
The house was a rambling Cape, the exterior weathered to that driftwood color that always conjures up New England for me whenever I see it elsewhere. Dormer windows peeked out of the roof, and Ellen had wisely chosen to keep all the woodwork white. I always hated when nouveau riche New Yorkers bought a house down here and immediately executed some harebrained pastel paint job. Pink and green might fly out there on Martha’s Vineyard, but they don’t fly here. (Take a note, New York, I’m dead-on right about this.) Fortunately for my peace of mind, this particular house was as authentically Cape Cod color-schemed as they come. And if location is everything—and we all know it is—this house had some serious advantages in that department, despite being a bit off the beaten path. Set comfortably back on a hill dotted with gently swaying wildflowers, overlooking a marshy ocean inlet, it all but dripped seaside hideaway. All you could hear were the gulls; and the tang of salt in the air was so crisp you could taste it. I fully expected a hunting dog to run out of the reeds with a mallard in its mouth, or a lobster boat to round the bend with dinner on deck. Right then, as if on cue, a woman straight out of a Winslow Homer painting emerged from the front door. We parked and I hopped nimbly out of the car to greet her.
“You must be Michael. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.” She looked a little tentative, as though she thought I was going to start yelling at her. I was sure that at one point or another some rich Duxbury asshole had torn her a new one because he had gotten lost coming here and missed most of the clambake. Well, that wasn’t going to be me (I never miss a clambake), and after the warning look I immediately shot in the direction of the car, it wasn’t going to be Kate either.
“No, no problem at all, Ellen’s directions were great. This is my friend Kate, and you must be Charlotte.” Kate waved wanly but remained right where she was.
“Nice to meet you both, glad you made it in one piece. I got nervous you had some sort of trouble—Ellen already phoned looking for you. She said for you to give her a call once you got here. Something about deciding to have you play Pony Express after all?” Charlotte smiled a little as she said this. I had a feeling she had been working for Ellen for decades.
“Okay, no problem.” I motioned to Kate to get out of the car, since I didn’t want her to leave until I made sure everything was all set for my journey south. She pretended to ignore me, but then grudgingly unbuckled herself and lurched out of the car door. With her long blond hair, now starting to streak silver in places, and her brightly colored peasant skirt, Kate added another level of picturesque to the scene. Pretty as a postcard—as long as she wasn’t talking, my internal monologue intoned wittily. I abruptly turned away from Kate so she wouldn’t ask why I was smirking. By doing so, I caught Charlotte a little off guard, and saw something that I perhaps would have otherwise missed. Ellen’s assistant was openly studying Kate, and the emotion written on her face could be only one thing: relief.
It hit me all at once—how utterly nerve-wracking this situation would be for a sixty-year-old woman, alone in this giant house in the middle of nowhere. I was this totally unknown quantity, really. I mean, Ellen wasn’t even in the state, and poor Charlotte had to do the initial meet and greet. And if all that wasn’t enough, she had to decide whether to entrust a vehicle to my care. Well, what can you do? It’s not as if any of this had been my idea. I hoped Kate’s Rehab at Sunnybrook Farm routine was enough to ease this woman’s mind that I wasn’t a serial killer, or maybe all I needed was to have brought a female along with me. Just then, Charlotte caught my eye, smiled, and started leading the way toward the front door, all of which I took as a good sign. Not wishing to press my luck, I tried to look as harmless as Bambi while I followed her across the lawn (well, I do have big brown eyes, at least). Kate was seemingly calmer by the second as the sun and sea soaked into her, and certainly wasn’t about to come along.
I followed Charlotte through the massive oak front door (replete with nautically inspired brass doorknocker) and blinked around, sunblind, in the foyer. I hoped my curious glances around at the first floor wouldn’t make this woman think I was casing the joint. I mean, I couldn’t really help myself; the inside of this house was pretty amazing. Light hardwood floors throughout contrasted with the darker wainscoting, and well-chosen antiques intermingled with cottage chic couches and chairs. It looked comfy, but expensive comfy. And you could have hosted the Last Supper in the dining room. Although at the current moment, that wouldn’t really be too feasible, unless the loaves and fishes were going to be served on orange cardboard. Because from where I stood, the dark mahogany tabletop was barely visible under a slew of Hermès boxes.
Now, I had seen some orange boxes in my life, but Ellen’s collection, or part of her collection, or whatever I was looking at on that table, was large enough to open a Cape Cod Hermès store—like, tomorrow. I’m talking two, three hundred boxes, easy, all artfully arranged by size. It was mind-blowing to realize how much merchandise this one woman had
and how much money it represented. I’m not one to bring up starving orphans—after all, it’s not as if they can eat scarves—but this was perhaps a tad excessive. I concentrated on not gawking.
“All right, here’s the kitchen. The phone is on the wall.” Charlotte looked at me expectantly. I reluctantly ripped my eyes away from the French copper cookware suspended from ceiling hooks, and the matching Pierre Vergnes sink with its exquisitely tiled backsplash.
Oh, no, this was going to be awkward.
“Um, actually, Charlotte, I don’t really know her number…” My voice trailed off. This was definitely not helping with the whole I-am-a-total-stranger thing. Charlotte dialed the phone for me wordlessly.
It took a good half hour to go through all the purse boxes in that dining room to find the two beauties Ellen had requested I bring down for her. Each time I attacked another box, I hoped against hope to see either bag #1—a cream croc Birkin—or bag #2—a blue jean leather Kelly. Charlotte chattered at me while I untied and retied ribbons, and peered through clouds of tissue. She didn’t bring up orphans, thankfully, but I could tell she was slightly horrified at the whole Hermès overkill. I found out that packages arrived with such frequency for Ellen that Charlotte got teased at the post office about them needing to hire someone specifically for the Yeats household. I was also informed that the orange stacks on this table were but a small sliver of Ellen’s Hermès pie. I employed with Charlotte the same technique I had used with Kate in the car this morning—I kept my mouth shut. Eventually, I pulled the designer needles out of the haystack, and it was time to hit the road. Finally. As charming as the place was, I was ready to get going. I had some long driving hours ahead if I was going to make any progress at all today.
I followed Charlotte’s Ann Taylor–clad form down the stone steps leading to the garage on the side of the house. Squinting at the bright sunshine and trying gamely to see over two giant purse boxes stacked in my arms, I felt lucky when I reached the bottom without breaking my neck. I snuck a quick glance over at Kate, now back in the car, but couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed behind her oversized sunglasses. Charlotte hit the remote for the garage door, and I awkwardly juggled the boxes to take the keys she offered me.
Then I nearly shit myself.
Because in that garage was not the Mercedes or the BMW I had half expected. It wasn’t even the Jag or the Porsche I had half hoped for. No, no, no, and no, it was none of these. The car that revealed itself as that garage door rose slowly up hadn’t made it into even my most fantastical imaginings. The car parked ten feet in front of me…the car I was about to climb into…the car my client was having me drive all the way to Florida without ever having laid eyes on me…was a fucking…Aston…Martin. A candy apple red convertible one, with bright shiny chrome and beige leather bucket seats. A car worth maybe a quarter of a million dollars. As if through a long tunnel, I could hear Charlotte somewhere far off, saying something about how it was such a waste to even have it, since Ellen had driven it maybe twice, possibly three times at most. I became vaguely, peripherally aware that Kate had emerged from her car and was now standing next to me. I slowly swung my head to the side to get her reaction, and saw a dumbfounded expression on her face that made me feel like I was looking in a mirror.
She murmured to me, “Michael…what is it? It looks really…fast. And really…really…expensive.”
I wanted to say, Duh, Kate, it’s a car, but I went with the day’s ongoing theme and said nothing whatsoever.
Instead, I gingerly placed the two boxes on the ground and walked weak-kneed into the cool, air-conditioned climate of the garage. I circled the Aston Martin like a predator closing in for the kill, but I wanted only to worship, not to harm. I briefly worried maybe this whole deal was a setup—maybe Charlotte would call the cops as soon as I left the driveway, or maybe Ellen had cut the brake lines to get the insurance money and buy more Hermès stuff. Then I remembered I sold her most of that stuff, and that would be like shooting your own drug dealer. I relaxed. And mentally prepared for the ride of my life.
After settling my luggage and Ellen’s boxes into the trunk, telling Kate that the car was, yes, fast, and yes, expensive, thanking Charlotte effusively, then hugging Kate about twelve times, then thanking Charlotte effusively again, I finally slid behind the wheel. The leather was butter-soft, and the interior left nothing to be desired. And I knew, as soon as I saw the Linn sound system, exactly what my first stop would be—somewhere that sold CDs, preferably loud ones. I started up the engine, which didn’t purr, as I’d expected…instead, it roared in a whisper. I backed the dream car out of the garage, swung it in a three-point, relishing the uncanny responsiveness, and pulled up to where the two women stood waiting for a last good-bye. I said one final farewell, beeped, and was off to the proverbial races.
I couldn’t for the life of me wipe the lunatic grin off my face. And once I got off that god-awful endless dirt road, bought me some music, cranked the tunes, and hit the open highway, I couldn’t think of a single reason to even try to wipe it off. So I wore that grin all the way to Florida. Gawking gas station attendants; rubbernecking travelers the next lane over on the freeway; eager valet drivers at hotels, who wanted to tip me—I flashed that same grin at each and every one of them. And for once, the wide smile on my face had nothing to do with the Hermès purses in my trunk.
29
Creamsicles and Moonstones
In the past year or so, I’d bought a leather Birkin and a 35cm croc Kelly—plus several shawls, bracelets, Ulysses, and other small items—at the Hermès shop in Luxembourg, always enjoying the company of the kind store manager. So I was not terribly surprised when I returned home from my Aston Martin adventure in Florida to find an invitation from them to attend the grand reopening of their renovated shop. At first, I blithely tossed the invitation in the trash—why would I want to fly to Luxembourg to drink Champagne at Hermès? Plus, I was much more interested in seeing how big Dali (my new Bengal kitty) had gotten while I was gone, and making sure he remembered me. Then, as Dali purred on my lap and looked adoringly at me with his giant green eyes, I reconsidered. Maybe I was being a bit hasty. It was a new store and a gala event, so perhaps they would have some special bags sent in from Paris to make the store look extraordinary. If I could get a croc Birkin that was unusual or rare—well, it would make it well worth the trip to Luxembourg. Crocodile and more crocodile, my life now revolved around crocodile. And Sarah’s need for it.
Sarah had recently, and accidentally, “come clean” with me, in a manner of speaking. She had sent me a bank wire transfer for a bag, as usual. However, she had sent it out of an account I hadn’t seen before, a business account under the name Créateurs de Luxe, with her name listed as proprietor. Hmm. I Googled. And apparently she had one of the largest Birkin Web sites on the planet. Well, well, well. I called her immediately.
“Sarah, it’s Michael.”
“Hi, Michael, what’s up?”
“How is Créateurs de Luxe going? That poudre croc I got in Berlin last month looks great on the site, if I do say so myself.” I couldn’t help laughing. She started laughing too.
“Oh, you asshole, how did you find out? I was going to fucking tell you, but I didn’t know how to after a while, and I’m sorry, I should have…you aren’t mad, right? Tell me you aren’t mad!” Sarah pleaded, serious all of a sudden.
“No, I don’t care, I think it’s great. And I found out because you paid me with your business account, you idiot!” We giggled together for a little while longer, I assured her a hundred more times that I wasn’t mad, and that was that. It really didn’t affect our relationship at all. I had always maintained that I didn’t care what happened to a bag once it left my hands, so it would have been hypocritical of me to get worked up now. My parents also now had some peace of mind—after my dad had realized he had personally sent her more than fifty bags, I thought his head was going to implode from pure horror at Sarah’s excess. But ever the pro
ponent of free trade, now that he knew she resold the bags, he loved the whole idea of Sarah and me having such a lucrative supply-and-demand relationship.
This party (and the opportunity to score a special croc Birkin) might be a chance to show Sarah there were truly no hard feelings, so feeling very magnanimous, and just a tad bit avaricious, I retrieved the invite from the trash and booked a flight and hotel. Obviously, this was an occasion to dress for shopping success. I packed an Armani Black Label suit that I had made to measure at Bergdorf’s, along with a blue-black-and-white-checked Hermès shirt and black John Lobb shoes. The icing on the cake: an Hermès pashmina shawl that was tissue-thin and changed color from one end to the other, gradating from chartreuse to lime green. At seven feet long, when rolled and simply tossed around the neck, it really looked like a million bucks (or the $1,100 it cost), and I felt very much the Hermès dandy. Why not? Pavarotti got away with it. I’d just have to be careful not to snag my chaîne d’ancre on it—that would definitely be a party foul.
The invitation said seven o’clock at the address of the new shop, and when I arrived at seven fifteen, there were already hundreds of people there. The scene resembled nothing so much as a bizarre debutante ball. In the air was a palpable feeling of people dressing to dazzle, and the undercurrent of fluttery need for peer approval, both of which reeked of Waldorf-Astoria coming-out festivities. It was strangely unsettling to see this in an environment where the median age was eighty-one, not eighteen. The masculine fashions of Kiton, Brioni, and Armani were paired off, Noah’s Ark–style, with the best efforts of Valentino, Chanel, and Balenciaga. (It dawned on me that parties like this were what bought brand-name designers their hundred-foot yachts.)
Bringing Home the Birkin Page 18
